


I Want to Play Hunter

by PineNiedle



Series: Domestic Blisters [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Animalistic, Biting, Blood and Gore, Consensual Non-Consent, Dark Will Graham, Feral Behavior, Gun Kink, Hunters & Hunting, M/M, Murder Husbands, Nude Modeling, Nudity, Olfactophilia, Outdoor Sex, Porn With Plot, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Roleplay, Rough Sex, Switching, Wrestling, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:53:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26225221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PineNiedle/pseuds/PineNiedle
Summary: Hannibal and Will realize they've settled into normalcy and lost their fire. Will suggests a twisted game to remedy this.Heed the tags. These boys are in for it.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Series: Domestic Blisters [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1873288
Comments: 6
Kudos: 53





	I Want to Play Hunter

**Author's Note:**

> This is sort of a foil to my first piece in the series, _Agape_ , which centers on more softer themes, but this is perfectly suitable as a standalone piece. Same universe, same couple. Sometimes murder husbands just show their love in different ways.
> 
> (This takes place a few months later, in the Spring.)

Hannibal idly hummed along to the first movement of Rimsky-Korasov’s _Scheherezade_ as it played softly from the speakers in their living room. The dignified string melody was accompanied by the occasional _snip_ as he separated strands of Will’s unruly curls and trimmed them, as was the usual since they moved to such a remote location. Will sat in a chair taken from the dining table, towel draped over his shoulders and their husky Ophelia sleeping soundly at his feet. Hannibal had been practicing grooming Will since they’d moved into the mountains, gradually becoming adept at taming the mane of curls Will so frequently neglected to tame.

“I’m going to go down to the river tomorrow, I think,” Will said, breaking the verbal silence between the two. “Supposed to be good weather. Warm. We haven’t had fish in a while... Maybe I’ll bring the low caliber rifle and get a rabbit or two for Ophelia.”

Hannibal ran a hand through Will’s hair, taking note of a few gray streaks at his temples that stood out. He smiled to himself, silently admiring how handsome Will looked in gray. “It will be a relief to get out after so many days stuck inside,” he agreed, “for the both of you.”

There was more quiet between them, filled by a swelling orchestral cadence. Eventually, Hannibal finished his work with a few final comb-throughs and stepped in front of his subject, taking care not to tread on Ophelia. He took Will gently by the chin and turned his head left and right to make sure everything was even, furrowing his brow and pursing his lips slightly in thought.

Will gave him an amused grin when he did so. “It doesn’t need to be perfect, Hannibal. You’re the only one ever seeing it.”

Hannibal kept his hold on his husband’s face, admiring it for a few moments before speaking. “Though I believe anything on you would look nothing short of perfection, it would be a shame to deny you the composed... _cherubic_ elegance your bone structure so clearly deserves.” After taking in Will’s flattered little smile for a few moments, Hannibal leaned forward and gave him a loving, chaste kiss on the lips. When he pulled away, he smoothly stepped aside to pick up the hand mirror he’d set down with his scissors and combs and handed it to Will before taking up the broom to sweep up his hair.

Will didn’t particularly care all that much what he looked like, but he took the mirror to please his husband. It was the least he could do, considering his only contribution to Hannibal's grooming was cleaning up the back of his neck. He turned his head to the side to admire his meticulous work, brow twitching in irritation, however, when he noticed the graying at his temples. Lowering the mirror, his gaze fixed on the trees outside the living room window, also gray in the dusk light. After a few moments, he spoke up. “Hannibal?”

Hannibal looked up from his broom work to the back of Will’s head. “Too short? I apologize.”

Will ignored his assumption. “Are we...old?”

“Objectively?” He resumed sweeping. “No. _I_ may be, perhaps.” Once he was satisfied with the little pile, he moved in front of Will again and removed the towel from his shoulders, giving him a tender, sympathetic gaze. “Personally, I think the gray is quite becoming on you.”

“So you’ve noticed.” Will stood up with a sigh, and Ophelia roused from her sleep.

Hannibal’s smile took on amusement. “Where is this coming from? I’ve never known Will Graham to care about gray hair before,” he teased, remembering how his husband had admitted to being attracted to Hannibal’s gray, cut-short hairstyle in the BSHCI. 

“Graham-Lecter,” Will mumbled in correction, a predictable and obvious deflection.

“ _Lecter-Graham,_ ” Hannibal retorted, admittedly toying with the other for the sheer value of amusement it offered. 

“ _Graham-Lecter,_ ” Will was quick to snap back, averting his eyes and looking around for something to do. “It’s alphabetical that way.”

“You’re ignoring the question.”

“Yeah, I am.” Will decided to grab the dustpan and gather up the hair pile. Crouching down to do so, Ophelia followed and lapped at his cheek in affection. 

Hannibal observed the two fondly, although a hint of _psychiatrist_ slipped into his tone when he spoke. “I was content not to comment on it. You were the one to bring up the subject of aging, Will.”

Will stood up and went to the trash, stepping on the pedal to open the lid and dumping the pan of brown curls and a few stray dog hairs inside. Hannibal felt a tiny pang of sadness at the act, for throwing out any part of his precious Will felt like a waste. 

“It’s just...I don’t know.” Will itched underneath his sweater sleeve uncomfortably. “I wasn’t gray when we started this... _together_ thing.”

“We are approaching two years. Happily, I hope.”

“Fuck- Hannibal, of course I’m happy with _us._ ” Will refused to look at the other, keeping his back turned and his grip tight on the dustpan. Out of his peripheral vision, he enviously watched Ophelia trot over to her dog door and shuffle through it, wishing he could leave this conversation too. He couldn't explain his anxiety over the gray hair; he supposed it was some subconscious knowledge that normal middle-aged couples fight and get divorced, but the mere notion of Hannibal and him having any facsimile of normalcy was absurd. Perhaps it could be more stress over mortality, this time over his own, but Will hadn't been afraid to die in a long time. His actions on the clifftop solidified that. "I-I don't know," he stuttered out, settling on the first explanation he was able to muster up. "I guess I just don't want us to get... _boring."_

“ _Boring?_ ” Hannibal’s brow raised in surprise, and he went to his husband, slipping behind him and wrapping his arms around his waist. He nuzzled at his neck dotingly, breathing his scent in. “I wouldn’t exactly call our lifestyle _boring,_ Will.”

Will squeezed his eyes shut, trying to ground himself by focusing on the feeling of Hannibal’s breath on his neck. “Yeah, I know. We eat people and we're international criminals." Their kills were calculated and carefully spread out. Boring. "But that's compared to everyone else. What about compared to ourselves?" 

Hannibal smoothly moved to Will's front, taking the dustpan from his stressed grip and setting it aside, replacing the hard plastic with his own, soft hands. "You're feeling human. Less than you were...less than _we_ were, before settling here. You think we are getting old, in the metaphorical sense. Aging by becoming prosaic." There was no hint of hurt or bitterness in his tone, only a touch of sympathetic understanding. 

Will barely suppressed a flinch. He would be grateful for Hannibal's adept ability to communicate his own thoughts, if these particular grievances didn't make him seem like such an ungrateful asshole. He met his husband's gaze, his expression verging on apologetic. "I know we're intertwined to the point of separation being lethal. I just miss something we used to have that got pushed aside... Hannibal, I-...we lost something. This mundane day-to-day just isn't us."

Hannibal’s eyes fixed on the prominent curve Will's Cupid's bow in thought, taking a momentary stroll through his memory palace, gathering pieces of their partnership that spanned years. Beautiful flashes of his lover covered in blood, of his pale, rough hands trying to wield a scalpel, of obscenely animistic consummations, of torn bed sheets, of teeth and lips red with viscera. Stunning images that gradually faded away in lieu of coffee creamer, grocery lists, and reading glasses set on polished nightstands. Will was right; they'd both been changed on that cliff. They had embraced that change at first, their mutual becoming consummated in the black, hot, glistening entrails of the Dragon. But subconsciously, out of necessity and caution, they had returned to normalcy, and normalcy was suffocating. 

Will sensed the change in Hannibal's expression and nodded, looking down at their hands. "I know you love your elegance and your expensive shit and your perfectly-crafted _everything_ , but you and I both know it's empty without some sort of..."

" _M_ _use,"_ Hannibal finished for him, accent thick.

"Yeah." Will swallowed, knowing by now the strength of influence he held over his partner while wild and uninhibited.

Hannibal slowly closed the space between them, dexterous hands moving to grip Will's jaw and thumbs pressing possessively into his cheekbones. His expression was hard with regret, heart full of remorse over the gradual waste of their marital, divine becoming, but belly full of a hungry fire to foster it once more. " _Mylimasis,_ " he mumbled, lips mere inches from his beloved's, "so many remain... Shall we cull the herd?"

Will closed his eyes, body going a bit slack in response to his husband's mournfully angry grip. He committed to wrapping his arms around the other's waist, idly rubbing the cashmere of Hannibal's sweater between his fingers. The imagery was magnificent, and there were still debts to be paid back in the States, especially since Freddie Lounds had long since outlived her entertainment value. However, such an exploit would have to be carefully-plotted, and much like a petulant child, Will had no intention of waiting. "I want to," he mumbled, voice small. "But...some grand, bloody display will call attention to us. Until we have a plan, a...reliable way out, we have to keep this internal."

Interest flashed in Hannibal's low-lidded eyes. "You have an idea."

 _Mutual satiation via mutual sacrifice. Generous and selfish all at once._ “I do."

"Anything, lamb." He lovingly caressed his thumb over Will's lower lip. "Anything you wish of me, it is yours."

Will opened his eyes, the cloudy blue of his irises a thin ring in comparison to the gaping black of his pupils. 

"I want to play Hunter."


End file.
